I feel full. And not just in the sense that I discovered that I love Chinese takeout (I’m being serious – first time I’ve ever bought the stuff on my own violation). But full in the sense that this was two days I could live again and again and again, groundhog day style, and still not get enough.

There’s something to be said for making room in your life for the important things.

For friends – the kind of friends that put in more than what they ask from a friendship, and before you know it three hours are gone and none of you want to leave the booth. The type of friends that steal your phone to take candid (and hilariously awful) selfies of you, who laugh at your bad jokes and hug you hello and goodbye. The type of friends you can see yourself being 80 years old and playing bingo with.

For work – getting projects checked off, sending invoices and feeling so amazed at what you’re capable of when you turn the TV off and get your hands dirty both online and off. For having a clean kitchen to cook a full breakfast (with mini pancakes) for your family – remembering just how much you love it, how good it feels to cook for someone other than yourself.

For self care. Painting your nails and doing honey masks and sleeping in. For that haircut you decide you need on a whim. Asking the stylist to give you a full tutorial on how to truly style it, and allowing yourself to buy all the product she uses on you, every single bottle.

I don’t remember the nightmares at all, to be honest. Just the uneasy feeling they leave, a sensation that someone is in the room with me. The cold sweat and fear that rushes down to my toes as I wake to find myself standing (what the hell?!), swatting at the air and the walls, screaming out, “who are you?”

Dialogue to an empty room.

—

I wake in the middle of the night, my left hand sleepily reaching towards the far side of the bed.

Muscle memory. An old habit, one that I didn’t know existed.

I giggle when I realize no one is there, either.

Because love is the opposite of fear and in the middle of both there is me, spread out like a starfish alone on a queen size bed.

It’s been there for a few years now, made more profound in the right hand even after four surgeries to repair it. It still can’t bear weight, not even the moments when I absentmindedly prop my head in my hand. A habit.

There’s a dead spot on my palm where they severed the nerve. It doesn’t hurt – it’s more similar to when your limb falls asleep, that hollow feeling right before the pins and needles kick in. I spend the majority of my working day avoiding putting that part of my hand down.

Because we avoid discomfort, with our bodies and with our minds.

But these hands and the ache – they are physical proof that I’m doing what I always wanted to be doing, earning a living from them. From words. It may be for brands but it’s still me, sitting here behind a computer screen tap-tap-tapping away at twenty six little characters.

And some day – I hope that part of that living can be made from here, or from writing books (because I’m nothing if not ambitious). And the easiest way to do that is simply to write. Write hard, and often.

Kind, in a way that seemed almost too good to be true. How sad it is – that kindness, simple generosity goes such a long way for my heart.

And for the first time since being single, I was ready – excited, even. I was open to possibility and all it entails.

But like most things that seemed too good to be true, it was.

A false-starter.

So, I cancelled.

And instead of figuring out who he is over Indian food right now, and perhaps tasting the sun on his lips at the end of the night, I am home, laptop burning bright and wine glass empty with three dogs at my feet.